The Raven Queen

by Jules Watson

The hall was nearly empty. With labored breath, Conor drank from a beaker at his side, flexing his other hand and watching the rings upon it. Damn you, nephew.

  Cúchulainn had avoided Emain Macha since he witnessed Deirdre throw herself into the sea, and though Conor was glad to be spared the memory in the Hound’s eyes, the young warriors loved Cúchulainn with a passion. They would clamor to join the Red Branch just to be close to him, to be taught by him. He must come back and sit at the feasts and games and show that Conor remained strong.

  “You.” Conor called the last rider to him. “Go to the Hound of Cullen and tell him I demand he attend me here. Tell him …” He gnawed his lip. “Tell him we need him to bind what has been riven. Tell him warriors are gathering and they need him to lead them, to make our people safe.” Pricking the Hound’s conscience usually worked.

  The youth gulped and bowed, hurrying out with shining eyes.

  A wind slammed into the hall and the timbers creaked. Conor’s eyes darted to the shadows. In dreams, the red-haired vixen of Connacht crept through the woods toward him, a lance over her shoulder. Her triumphant smile always woke him, panting and sweating.

  He remembered her watching him thus from the shadows—just before she betrayed him and fled. She must have been planning it from the start, masking her ambition with that cool self-possession. Other royal daughters would have been proud to wed Erin’s most glorious king, but her face always radiated a subtle defiance he could never quite extinguish.

  He tried, striking her sometimes to glimpse that fire for which she was renowned; taunting her to make her eyes flash. It was just enough to harden his shaft so he might get a child on her to bind him to Connacht.

  To give him Connacht.

  Now he knew that smoldering gaze had been hiding a devious plot to seize her own kingdom, in order to defy him. She had only been waiting for a chance to usurp her kin so she could then strike at him.

  Die by the hand of Woman.

  Conor quelled a tremor. Where else would Fergus run but to that vengeful bitch? She came. They all came for him.

  Conor was on his feet, the hall fading away. Yes, they came, weaving among the roof-pillars … the trees … their swords glinting. Ferdia, Fergus, Cormac, my son … dead to him now. Ailill.

  Maeve.

  With a growl, Conor threw his bronze cup at those ghostly faces, and it fell and shredded the smoke, and they were gone. The cup bounced into the fire and sent up a fan of sparks.

  Conor kept his hollow eyes on those flames. Fire could cleanse, as well as ruin—cleanse this land of his enemies. He would strike them before they could him. And one by one all their kingdoms would fall, until there was one left, for him alone.

  CHAPTER 26

  Maeve poured a stream of wine into the gilded horn clutched in Fergus’s massive, scarred fingers. He needed to see what luxuries he would gain by keeping his oaths to her. She didn’t trust him—yet.

  “I am surprised you would be alone with me.” The former Ulaid king strained the wine through his silver moustache, glancing around the house where Maeve had lodged him, Cormac, and Ferdia.

  This day, Fraech had taken the latter two and all the other Red Branch hunting boar in the hills.

  Fergus and Maeve sat alone on cushioned chairs by a crackling fire, feet on soft furs. Wool hangings woven with the Connacht eagle warded drafts from the door. The last of the cheese glistened on a platter next to a basket of honey-cakes. That morning Maeve had even lent Fergus her bathtub, hauled by servants and then filled with hot water by her prettiest maids.

  Maeve smiled, proffering a cake. “You are famous for your sense of honor, Fergus. You, of all men, would not break a guest-law.”

  Fergus could not hide his pleasure. His blue eyes were small but shrewd in his battered face, and gray hair sprouted from his bulbous nose and ears.

  Maeve poured for herself. “Nor do you lie—unlike Conor.”

  Fergus swallowed. “Do not name me in the same breath as that bastard.”

  She watched the coiling of those enormous slabs of muscle, the hands that could crunch bone, and suppressed a shudder. She leaned her elbows on her knees, cradling her cup. “This could still be an elaborate plan of yours to betray us.”

  Fergus spread a hand on his thigh, looking down. His gray mane still dripped from the bath, spattering his clean trews. “All my heart was poured into Illan. He was pure and brave, like Lugh come to earth. And I sired him—lumpy, broken old me.” His knuckles turned white. “Now I do not care what oaths I once made. There is no more for me to lose. If you think I trick you, you are wrong.”

  Maeve was enthralled by the passion in his gruff voice. “But why come to me?”

  “Because one day you will face Conor in battle—and I want to be the one to take his life.”

  Maeve spilled wine from her mouth, the back of her hand covering it up. She rested the beaker on a log by the fire and lifted a little table between them. A carver had gouged and burned a grid of lines and black squares into its top. On that was a buckskin pouch of bone and jet counters.

  Life sparked in Fergus’s eyes when he saw the fidchell game, his ragged brows arching.

  “I know.” Maeve spread the counters out. “I played you at Emain Macha and lost, but the skill of a player changes when the stakes are raised. Some are spurred to greater heights.” She glanced at him. “Some snap under the pressure.”

  Fergus grimaced, swilling his wine. “Old oaks have withstood so much, they do not snap.”

  The game commenced, Maeve refilling his horn over and over, sticking to pleasantries until the drink had taken its toll. When she judged he was bleary-eyed enough she changed tack, her eyes on the board. “If you want me to defeat Conor, of course, then you need to give me better weapons.” She did not mean iron.

  Fergus’s jet piece clattered to the table. “I will not allow the slaughter of my people,” he slurred, frowning. “Or the ruin of my kingdom.”

  Maeve moved her bone piece on top of his. “I don’t want to ruin it. The Ulaid needs farmers and herders, smiths and weavers. Your people are as sacred as the land itself. They will not be harmed.” And nor will mine. It was a tremor in her very bones. “I want to keep the Ulaid prosperous and happy.”

  “It was that.” Fergus slid his piece awry, leaving an opening for Maeve to win. “No more.”

  She ignored the opportunity, her gaze sweeping up to fix on him. “As it could be again—with you as king.” He gaped at her, and she smiled, lifting a finger. “Only if you acknowledge me and Ailill as your overlords.”

  Fergus slammed his wicker chair back and it slid on the scattered floor rushes. He passed a hand over his eyes, his mouth trembling behind his wrist.

  “What did you expect?” she asked softly.

  He dropped his fist to his lap, his face haggard. “An alliance of equals.”

  “The Ulaid have a habit of forgetting alliances. I cannot afford you becoming a danger again.”

  “We will not, with my honor staked on it.”

  She sprang from her seat and came around the table. “To risk so much, I need more than honor. And if you do not swear this, you will not be able to rid your land of Conor’s stain.” She dropped her voice, touching the white hair on the back of his wrist, turned ruddy by the firelight. “You will not get close enough to put these about his throat as you dream of doing.”

  Fergus stared down at his meaty hands and flexed them. The scent of death hung about every great warrior.

  Her belly sinking, Maeve raised her voice. “Come! I heard you were bored with the business of ruling, anyway. This way, you can content yourself with hunting boar and deer, bedding women and making your hall glorious.” With a flourish she leaned over to move her last piece.

  It was a deliberate suicidal position.

  Fergus smacked his counter on top of hers to claim his triumph, then swept all her warriors off the board, toppling the table and spilling his wine. He lowered his head to his chest, breathing hard.r />
  The hairs had lifted on Maeve’s neck. “I see you agree.” She threw her sheepskin cloak about her and rubbed her arms beneath the soft fleece.

  At the door, she cast an eye over his slumped shoulders. “If you will be Ulaid king, Fergus, it would be prudent for us to do all we can to gild your reputation. Your men are grief-sick and afraid. They have to believe you can knit them back together.”

  He bristled. “They know that.”

  “They will be doubting all they know right now.”

  He raised his head to her, frowning.

  “You must be expecting I will offer myself to you, Fergus. Everyone does.”

  His eyes flared, his mouth falling open.

  She summoned a dry smile. “I do not want to lie with you, however, and I see you share my lack of desire.” She waved a hand at the scattered pieces. “We will continue to play fidchell together, and everyone will assume we are embroiled in … other games. It will raise your standing among my men and yours if they think you alone can tame the vixen of Connacht.”

  Outside, Maeve for once let her shoulders fall. For a moment her mind slipped into an unguarded daze. In that stillness came a throb of pain, stirring as if it saw its chance.

  Hastily, she spun around. Something must have to be done … someone always needed her. Rubbing the ache from her breastbone, she ran into a bulwark of flesh before she could stop herself.

  Ailill was blocking the narrow track between two houses, their thatch roofs nearly sweeping the ground. Dusk had already gathered here, cold and damp.

  Maeve stifled a curse as she stepped on his toes, and would have pulled back but he grabbed her wrist. “Just why,” he ground out, “were you alone with Fergus mac Roy?”

  Distracted, she tried to step around him. “You know I must win him over, more than all the others.”

  Ailill followed. “Why? He is our prisoner, Maeve.”

  Her laugh was brittle. She desperately needed to get away and think. “He is not very useful as a prisoner, Ailill. He is an exile, and brought his kin with him. No one will pay a ransom for him. But he is useful as an ally.”

  “An ally? You are going to set him loose to join Conor again?”

  She sighed. “Were you too drunk to listen to him the night he arrived? He hates Conor with every drop of blood in his veins. And …” She stopped and turned to the Laigin prince. “I believe he will keep his oaths to us. I told you I never met anyone so bound to his word as Fergus mac Roy.”

  Ailill’s glower deepened, the purple twilight casting shadows over his heavy brow.

  Maeve moved her hand to his arm. She realized she had been too busy with the exiles to discuss this with him. “I said we would restore him as Ulaid king—”

  “What?”

  “If he swore allegiance to you and me.”

  Ailill opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and drew back. He flung his bear-fur cloak over his shoulder. “You are mad, Maeve. He will gain his freedom and turn on us.”

  Maeve chewed inside her lip, breathing through her nostrils. She did not pick Ailill as husband for his cunning. “Treating him well now means we will never have to fear the Ulaid again.” To be rid of that tension inside, her nerves pulled tight—she could hardly imagine what it would feel like. Soon … it comes soon …

  Ailill only grunted in the back of his throat and knocked her arm aside, before stalking away.

  Maeve rubbed her wrist. Then she ground her heel into the mud to spin her around, choosing a different path. Ailill would come to his senses when the riches of Emain Macha fell into his hands and he was wreathed in Ulaid gold.

  But as she walked, her heart thought only of silver, iridescent and flowing, a radiance sweeping her on a tide beyond hurt.

  And nothing brutal grasping for her, ever again.

  A squall pounded the warriors who were hard at training on the meadows of Cruachan.

  Ferdia smeared the rain over his face, wiping sweat away. Turning his back on the sparring swordsmen, he squelched over to a little stream that was becoming swollen, breaking into rapids over the rocks. He could not squat easily in his horn armor, so he braced himself full-length on the ground and drank, then dabbed away blood from a cut on his brow.

  Standing, he tested his nose. Not quite broken. He probed his teeth. Still firmly rooted.

  He had been fighting all morning—blindly, fiercely. Though the men were only using wooden staves, he had thrown himself into the Red Branch trance, diving into the silver light in the hope it would drown him. He vaguely remembered howling as he cracked wrists and ribs, bruised skulls, shattered oak, and drew blood.

  Baying, the Connacht warriors had started leaping onto him, throwing punches. Ferdia was even more thrilled with that, flinging away his staff to let loose a flurry of fists. In the end the Connacht champion, Garvan, had dragged him off, threatening to toss him in the dung pit and damn what the queen said.

  But Ferdia knew Maeve needed him.

  The rain had ceased at last, the clouds lighter as the wind shredded them. By the stream, he lifted his oak stave, testing its weight. He had stabbed his iron sword into the ground at Conor’s feet before walking away from the Ulaid. Now he tried to summon that joy again—the tingling fingertips, the satisfying swing and clang. The Source flowed from a weapon into its master’s flesh, and from the master into the sword, so they were one.

  Did his body remember?

  Rain gleamed on the soaked wood in his hands, and in it Ferdia glimpsed a mischievous grin and mop of blond hair. Spar with me, brother, and we’ll work that fat off your belly!

  He flinched, the stave thudding to the ground.

  A shadow rolled over him. Ferdia blinked to clear his eyes. It was Fergus.

  Ferdia nodded to him. “I wonder when they’ll trust us enough to give us real blades.”

  Fergus scooped water with his hand and straightened, silver beard dripping. “Soon. They want us to fight in their war-bands.”

  Ferdia’s smile died. Fergus knew that Maeve was interested in only one battle. His temper was too strained to leash. “That she-wolf only wants us to fight the Ulaid—you know this! And Cúchulainn will be foremost in any battle line. How can you consider fighting him, your own sword-brother?”

  Fergus clutched the hilt of his stave, his dripping face a granite crag. “I love Cúchulainn.”

  “He is your Red Branch brother!”

  “I am no longer Red Branch.” Fergus stared down into the foaming water. “The Hound protects Conor, and I have to remove the poison I inflicted on the Ulaid years ago.” He drew a shaking breath. “I have to cleanse our land of a sickening king, a mad king, so that we can make our people safe again. If I have to go through Cúchulainn to do that, I will.”

  Ferdia flung his weapon into the wet ferns with all his force, shredding them. He wanted to sink a fist into Fergus’s stony face instead, make it crumble. But he couldn’t.

  “Cúchulainn is a man,” Fergus snapped. “He had a choice, and he chose Conor.”

  “He had no choice! He felt responsible for our people. He’s the only one to keep them safe after we abandoned them.” That is exactly what Cúchulainn had yelled at him that last terrible day. Cú had taken oaths to the people as their champion he would not break. Now Ferdia gulped. So why could he not bend his heart to stay?

  Deep down he knew why. He could not rid himself of the memory of Naisi’s dead face, or the ruin of Naisi’s loins, mutilated by Conor for bedding Deirdre. He could not forget the three brothers in their grave, piled like pups in a den. “I cannot shed the Hound’s blood, or he mine.”

  The coldness in Fergus’s eyes seeped into Ferdia. “My son was my blood. Though I love him, still I will smite Cúchulainn to get to Nessa’s cur.”

  “As will I.” Cormac appeared behind them. His wet hair looked like the pale reeds dragged in the current of the stream, the bruises under his eyes stark against cold skin. “If Cúchulainn stands in my way to justice, he is my enemy, too.”


  Ferdia spun about. “You say this only to escape the truth that your blade cut your own brother’s veins!”

  Cormac gasped and swung up his fist.

  “Enough!” Fergus came to life, shouldering between them. “Such fiery words will finish us!” He gripped Ferdia’s arms, looming over him. The rain trailed from his moustache, his brows. “Once we kill Conor, and the Hound knows we come not to ruin the Ulaid but rescue it, he will be freed of his oaths.” He shook Ferdia. “Think on this, brother.”

  Letting out his breath, Cormac placed a hand on Ferdia’s heaving shoulder. “And we can have our land back the way it was.”

  A distant, high-pitched shout from the eastern roadway cut over the din of the Connacht fighters. All three Ulaid heads lifted, as wolves that know the howl of their own pack. They dropped their weapons. Ferdia and Cormac bounded away through the last veil of raindrops, with Fergus lumbering after.

  In the middle of the track by the outer ramparts, a group of warriors were arguing beside a horse. Ferdia slowed. Connacht spearmen were struggling to restrain someone. “We said we would take you to the queen.”

  Ferdia recognized a pack of Red Branch exiles crowding them. “No, take him to Fergus!” they were baying. “Fergus needs to see him.”

  Ferdia glimpsed a streak of scarlet and his heart went into his throat. He broke into a run, splashing through puddles. Cú …

  The man at the center of the fuss was trying to free himself. “Get your hands off me, pup,” he growled, “or I will break both your arms and stick that spear up your arse!”

  Ferdia came to a halt.

  Cormac shot past him. “Conall!” Cormac yelled. Shouldering his way through the men, he clasped Conall Cearnach, the red-haired Ulaid warrior, to his chest.

  “Watch the wound, boy,” Conall croaked. He was one of the older Red Branch, tall and rangy, with a shock of red hair. Ferdia saw the scarlet shield tied to his saddle, but his weapons had been stripped from him at the borders, as had theirs. Conall was wounded in the battle at the Red Branch hall and left abed when the exiles departed—the only great hero besides Cúchulainn still remaining with Conor.